a grain of pigment, a drop of rain
the pattern of the edges of spilled liquid
not anything like the crab nebula

according to your color palette ("green, for the caterpillars")
i pour paint ("orange, like your cheeks... close enough anyway")
slowly onto the canvas ("yellow, for the sky in the morning, reflected")
the immediate realization ("blue, like the night, and the sound of the wind")
this will be nothing ("red, for blood, for the sun when you close your eyes")
like what i imagined ("black, for the great void of space")

The witching hour at night. I looked out my door of the caravan park donga and the world was veiled in mist. The familiar made unfamiliar, begging to be explored. I stepped out the door wearing my fuzzy bathrobe and ugg boots as armour against the cold and damp. The grass was green and wet in the caravan park lighting. The world lay asleep and a quiet hush abounded.

I went walking. The mist moved ahead of me, allowing only a measured distance of viewing before closing in white to hide the possibilities yet further on. The grass gave way to gravel. The road was ahead, and across the road stretched a paddock, ethereal in the blanket of mist. I crossed the road, and climbed through the fence, chasing the land of the fey behind the mist. I knew I wouldn't reach it, but it beckoned me still. I stood there in the paddock, surrounded by the cool air, kissed by the moonlight, blessed by the otherworldly. Peace and contentment flowed through me.

This moment was mine, to cherish, to live. There was no future, there was no past. Just this moment and the world of other, being both veiled and unveiled by the mist. This world blending into white then blending into darkness, and the other world touching this world yet not part of it. I bade the other world hello, wished it good night, then turned and left it behind me. Once again tucked into bed, warmth slowly returning to my body, I closed my eyes, and slept.